


baby I’m a four alarm fire

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 06:37:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14587140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: On the streets of 1960s LA, a pretty blonde prostitute propositions an enigmatic dark-haired gunrunner with a penchant for Marlboro cigarettes and amber bourbon."Sebastian gripped onto her forearm, guiding her hand to his lips so he could trace the lipstick stain of her drugstore cigarette. His lifestyle didn’t exactly allow for close personal company but there was something fatalistic about this jade-eyed, blonde haired beauty. Something that said she wasn’t going to live past her 30th birthday and that was just fine with Sebastian.He’d like to make her immortal."[edited 12/25/18]





	baby I’m a four alarm fire

Leaning against a black Rolls Royce, Sebastian lit up a pressed Marlboro as he stood beneath a backdrop of neon lights and a dark velvet sky. With an imperceptible sigh he exhaled a plume of pale grey smoke, head tilting back to view a distant star fall over the Sunset Strip. 

It was only the faint click of high heels (and the scent of watered magnolias) that caused him to open his eyes, movements languid but calculated as he caught sight of a pretty blonde girl, not much older than 19, with emerald eyes and a painted cupid’s bow pout in crimson red.

“Got a light?” She asked, one arm crossed beneath a full chest and the other pinned to her side, cigarette raised.

A curious half-smile appeared on his lips but nothing more was said as he brought out a gold-plated lighter. A faint spot of dried blood stained the lower left corner.

She leaned over, Pall Mall burning as the cigarette was lit. 

Smoke perfumed her words as she spoke. “What brings you to LA?”

“Same thing as everyone else I suppose.” Mahogany dark eyes appeared red in the unnatural light and the sleek cut of his three piece suit did little to deter the cherub-faced blonde.

“You're a convict then.” She announced in a manner that was more triumphant than anything else, and with a distinct lack of personal caution. 

“No,” amusement tinted the cool rancor of his voice. "Not quite." 

Those curiously pretty eyes narrowed. "Then what are you?”

He ignored her question—a pointless garble of words he didn't quite feel like answering—in favor of watching her squirm. She stood there, an emerald wrapped in newsreel and drugstore smoke, hips swaying and lips half-parted. She wore discomfort well—a second skin to her fishtail skirt and silk corset.  

Finally, Sebastian pushed himself upright and in one quick stride was face to face with this dumb, sweet baby doll. 

He liked the way her jaw looked, as soft and sharp as silk and glass. 

“You know,” there was a thread of warning in his voice, "some might say this," he gestured between them, "is a dangerous affair." 

Jade eyes, fringed by black lacquered lashes, blinked twice before a slow, dreamy smile appeared on that just-bitten pout of hers. “Oh, I want to test out that theory.”

“Do you?” He inquired and simply couldn't resist raising one hand to cup the underside of her jaw. She really was a gorgeous thing, with the face of an angel and a body like sin. “I have the strangest feeling you do this quite often.” 

“Approach strange men in an LA parking lot?”

“Naturally.”

“Do you feel less special because of it?” She teased. Lipstick stained crimson the paper-white of her cigarette.

“Well." He smiled. "There are other ways to ensure I'm the last one you ever service." 

A surprised look crossed her features. (Features that were smudged—blurred, almost, in a desperate attempt to bury an unwanted, undesired past.) 

“You think I’m a prostitute?” She sounded delightfully pleased—so thoughtlessly unaware—even as Sebastian catalogued every little detail about this girl who was half a mirage in his eyes. He'd once been trained as a mortician some years ago in a small town in Reno, Nevada. 

A position he both loathed and maintained, if for no other reason than anonymity. Sebastian had never been particularly good at blending it and from the looks of it (he leaned in close, took in this strange girl's scent), neither was she. 

The pretty little thing didn't resist when he dragged her close, forcing her feet to walk forward even as she pressed against his forearms, waist bending backwards in an attempt to get away. 

He smiled. “Am I wrong?" 

"Your hypothesis you mean?" 

He wanted to laugh. She looked positively thrilled that she'd somehow fooled him, as if he would believe her poorly concealed act. 

There was no prostitute in the world who could ever possess blood as blue as hers. 

But he remained silent, indulging her quiet giggles until it became full blown laughter and he was allowed to hold her until her cheek was pressed against his chest. He grasped at her wrist, forcing the girl's delicate hand to rise to his lips, bringing the Pall Mall cigarette with it. 

Her eyes widened. "Wait—" 

Sebastian inhaled an acrid, bitter smoke that burned worst than even the strongest Marlboro.

 _There's something to be said about sidewalk cigarettes._ He mused wryly.  

“Most people don’t like the taste.” She said faintly as Sebastian exhaled. Plumes of pale smoke silhouetted her red painted mouth and she was sweet enough to look guilty. “I tried to warn you. These cigs burn and everyone says they're awful and acrid and all the other horrible synonyms you can think of. In fact," she wiggled closer, all narrow waist and hourglass hips, “most people don't smoke 'em unless they got something to prove." She met his eyes, challenge unspoken. "You the same?" 

“No. But I think you do.”

“Me?” Her eyes widened. “Honey I'm the sweetest doll on this side of the west coast.”

"You just might be." He gave a pleasant smile. "Drop that atrocious accent and I may believe you." 

She scowled, appearing less disappointed and more annoyed. "Then you let me go right now." She seemed completely unaware that Sebastian had her boxed in and, even if he did let her go, there was nowhere for her _to_ go.

The parking lot was now empty and even the nearby freeway lacked the continuous glow of late night vehicles and their kidnapped molls.

Sebastian didn't quite care. He had his very own Lolita struggling in his arms.

"Let me go." She declared again. "I hate men who put on airs.”

A small part of Sebastian was amazed anyone would ever dare address him with such impunity but the other part—the greater part—was momentarily entranced by this pouting, spoiled vixen who had a voice laced with champagne and cyanide. 

"Any reason as to why?” He inquired with more obstinance than intended. 

She tried to free herself again, eyes darting briefly to the nebulous black behind her. "Oh, there's a reason but I—well, that's something I simply can't say." And right then and there, all the bravado fled her as two small, pale hands came to clutch at the front of Sebastian's waistcoat. 

“I’ve made you angry.” 

“No," she corrected with a single, petulant pout, "you haven’t. You’ve made me sad.”

“Sad?” Sebastian repeated the word as if it'd been said in Russian.

In the entirety of his thirty something years of life he’d only evoked three emotions in a woman: lust, pleasure, and perhaps irate indignation when morning came and the woman in the bedsheets found herself alone and without a kiss goodbye. Yes, Sebastian decided, there'd been quite a lot of anger and perhaps irritation but—sadness? 

Did women cry over him? Well, they might have. Perhaps a few even did. 

But they were easily quelled with Cartier and Harrods and whatever expensive bauble he saw lying around. Once, he'd given away a mother-of-pearl that had belonged to the last queen of Vietnam. 

Two sparkling teardrops caught his eye and Sebastian watched with unabashed fascination as she continued to cry, tears dripping from black eyelashes. 

Briefly, he wondered why women despised shedding tears in front of others. 

This girl, with her cascading curls and rosy cheeked, looked lovelier than all god's holy angels as she wept in front of him in an empty parking lot beneath a low-lit street lamp. 

Tilting her head, the girl swiped at her tears. “Will you let me run away with you?” She asked with a smile, eyes burning and Pall Mall trembling between unsteady fingers. 

“Run away with me?” He repeated, not quite sure he'd heard her right. 

“Yeah—yes.” She corrected, throwing whatever trailer park act she had out the window.

The girl pressed herself against him, breasts soft and warm as she continued to gaze up at him with smeared mascara and a tear-stained mouth. "Please?" She smiled winningly at him. 

"You're beautiful," he breathed, "beautiful and wealthy and so very foolish." 

In half a second he had their positions switched, the girl's emerald eyes widened as he pinned her against the cool metal of his now cold Rolls Royce. He brought her wrists to either side of her head, hands forcibly pressing down against her cream soft forearms. 

She would bruise, he knew it. 

Truthfully, his lifestyle didn’t exactly allow for close personal company but there was something fatalistic about this jade-eyed, blonde haired beauty. Something that said she wasn’t going to live past her 30th birthday and that was just fine with Sebastian.

He’d like to make her immortal.

“How are you with guns?” He knew she could feel the cool gunmetal of his Smith and Wesson. They were standing so close he could feel her heartbeat and smell the faded scent of her pearl and Chanel perfume. 

The last vestige of a glittering, glimmering life in a society Sebastian used to prowl, half-hidden by shadows and a chain of command that ensured no street rat would ever dare impose themselves against the marble foyer of the American aristocracy. 

Elizabeth exhaled. “Well, I can use one.”

“Can you?”

“Sure.” She answered with a smile. “You see, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

He wasn't surprised and something in his expression must have given it away because Elizabeth blushed suddenly, cheeks blooming with color. "It's...it's a very terrible predicament and I need to get away for a little while.”

He arched a brow. "I don’t suppose murder would be one of the things you’re running away from?”

“Oh please don’t say that.” She frowned. “I don’t like hearing it.”

“You're pretty enough to stomach a little reality, darling." 

She opened her mouth to speak—to protest—Sebastian didn’t really care either way. In one fell swoop he brought his mouth against hers, ruining crimson lipstick and tangling his fingers in her undone hair. 

With a sway of her hips and hands clutching his collar, Sebastian found her sweetly pliant even as she kissed him back, forcefully, and with such an urgency that Sebastian figured he wouldn't exactly mind having a murderess as his partner in crime.

“What do you say we go?” He breathed, releasing her mouth for half a second so she could answer.

“Mmh, that sounds lovely.” She smiled, lipstick smeared and cigarette forgotten. “I’m Lizzy, by the way. Just Lizzy.” 

Sebastian laughed. “You’re mine that’s what you are.”

And he kissed her again.

* * *

_Los Angeles Times, July 1961_

_EXCLUSIVE! LA Golden Girl Elizabeth Midford—MISSING!_

_Movie producer and Midford's fiancé Blavat Sky SHOT DEAD in the couple's shared penthouse suite. Investigation ONGOING. No comment given by either the Midford or Phantomhive families._

**Author's Note:**

> \- Fun fact: Pall Mall cigarettes were introduced in 1899 by the Black Butler Company in an attempt to cater to the upper classes. 
> 
> \- Title comes from Lana Del Rey’s song ‘Dangerous Girl’ 
> 
> A/N: Written in a fit of whimsy (and procrastination XD) 
> 
> Comments welcome.


End file.
